


Not With Haste

by Lexigent



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexigent/pseuds/Lexigent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the end of Fear Itself 7.1. Bucky and Steve say goodbye under the Brooklyn Bridge, and realize something. </p><p>Possible spoilers for <i>Fear Itself</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not With Haste

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate take on the end of _Fear Itself #7.1_. Their backstory is based on their dynamics in the movie though, so canon-wise, it's a mix of Brubaker and movie canon. The title is from [the Mumford & Sons song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8E9kso12GU) of the same name.  
>  Massive thanks and all the bro hugs in the world to [legoline](http://archiveofourown.org/users/legoline/pseuds/legoline) for being an awesome cheerleader.

After Natasha has left to get the bike and Steve has gone to the memorial, the only thing that remains for Bucky is to wait. He goes up to the roof and back down again, stares at the New York skyline in the dusk. He remembers the first winter back in New York, two years ago, and it seems like another lifetime.

It’s no use, he’s too restless, between wanting just to go and needing to say goodbye in a way that’s worthy.

Finally, he hears Steve’s footsteps behind him.

“God, I need some air.” 

Steve pushes open the back door and strides out towards the Bridge before the front door has even fully closed. Bucky’s only too happy to follow. 

They stand beside each other for a moment while Steve catches his breath. There’s drizzle in the air but Steve doesn’t seem to mind, and Bucky never does.

“So,” he asks, half turning to Steve, “good service?”

“Crowd seemed to like it,” Steve responds, one corner of his mouth turned up, a spark in his eyes. “Judge for yourself.”

From the inner pocket of his leather jacket, he pulls a folded-up sheet of paper and holds it out to Bucky.

Bucky raises his eyebrows and smiles up at Steve behind half-closed lashes as he unfolds the paper. 

He starts reading and his face falls. A twinge in the pit of his stomach reminds him of the last time he read something in Steve’s handwriting. Something about him, but not originally intended for his eyes.

Just like back then, Steve has underlined a few words. The ones he wanted to emphasize; that mattered most to him. They jump out at Bucky:

 **braver.**

**prouder.**

**inspiration.**

He swallows hard as his hands fold up the paper almost of their own accord, put it in his breast pocket, his fingers suddenly numb.

“Steve,” he says, and the name catches in his throat and comes out as a whisper. He clears his throat. “Thanks.”

There are so many words underneath the written ones that Steve could say. Probably wants to say.

If this was anyone else, they would say something like _It’s not fair_ or _Please don’t go_ or even, like Natasha, _I only just got you back._ But Steve’s too good for that.

“Seemed only fair you should have it. There’s not a lot of people get to read their own eulogies,” Steve says and looks at him sideways as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, hugging himself—the way he does when he wants to show strength but is faking it.

_God. It's bad._

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says and puts his left hand on Steve’s shoulder. And he is, for more things than he can name, even after all this time, all he’s done. Sorry that he agreed to Natasha’s plan, however reluctantly, and hurt Steve in the process; sorry that this whole Winter Soldier nightmare keeps getting in the way of him, of his life, of _them_.

He can feel Steve’s words burn a slow hole in his chest. He's only so much cold and mis-shapen metal and sharp ends pointing the wrong way, and no matter how much he tries to dull the edges, Steve’s always the one who winds up getting cut on them.

He can't even get a gesture of comfort right with this arm that doesn't even have a pulse.

_Fuck._

“Just promise me one thing,” Steve says and turns to him, so abruptly that Bucky’s hand slides off Steve’s shoulder.

“Anything.”

“Promise me I won’t have to make that speech again any time soon.”

“Not if I can help it. Promise.”

“Good.”

And just like that, Steve catches Bucky’s useless hand in his. Just holds it there as the drizzle starts turning into rain and blurs the outlines of the Bridge with the sky.

They’ve lost so much. Maybe, this whole age has. Those affectionate gestures between men that  
used to be common back in the day are now the prerogative of shadowy moments like this. He  
can’t even remember the last time they touched when they weren’t sparring. Then again, this is all bionics, it’s not really _him…_

He can feel something inside his chest start cracking as he breathes in.

_Jesus, Barnes, enough with the sentimentality. Keep it together. For Steve, if nothing else._

He bites down on his lip and he wants to pull away his hand because deep down, he doesn’t feel he deserves any of this. It’s all wrong, it’s painful and drawn out and he should just do Steve a favor and go already.

He looks at Steve almost defiantly. They lock eyes, Steve still holding onto Bucky’s hand tightly, not letting go, _never letting go_ — 

—and the last paper-thin layer of ice around Bucky’s chest vaporises into thin air.

This is why Steve exists. That warmth, like an ember on the fire that preserves the heat for the stray creatures that collect around an empty hearth. A slow, sustained burn that has melted away year after year of Russian winters and cryogenics, and now he’s the only thing that’s left: Sgt. James Barnes, who was—is—brave and proud and an inspiration.

“I love you too,” he says, stupefied.

He can’t just walk away, can’t take Steve’s words and give nothing in return.

Reality shifts sideways for the fraction of a millimeter. Half-forgotten fantasies, half-repressed desires, dreams he thought long buried and lost float to the surface.

History doesn’t give second chances. As their faces touch across seventy years of war, grief and loss, Bucky hazily realizes that this is in fact their third… and that this is all wrong. Again.

They come up for air and their foreheads rest against each other. Bucky’s heartbeat drums in his ears, blood and heat and pressure that’s been held for far too long.

It takes one breath, two, three, for him to come back to the present, and then the reality of what he’s just done hits him.

“Fuck. I… God, Steve, I can’t…”

Steve presses a kiss against his lips before he can get any further. Forceful, but not demanding. He pulls Bucky in close and Bucky lets himself be held, relishes the warmth and pressure and _comfort_ of Steve's arms around him. 

They're quiet like that for a long minute while the rain soaks their hair and gets under their collars, while their bodies say what they don't, can't, say in words.

Eventually, they let go, slowly, and Steve holds him at arm’s length.

“You go. You do what you have to do. Then you come back here.”

“Captain.”

He gives Steve a smile in spite of himself. 

Of _course_ he’s going to follow those orders. How could anyone not if they’re uttered with such conviction.

Steve smiles back and nods.

“I’ve waited seventy years for this. I think I can hold out a little longer.”


End file.
